


Bumps and Bruises

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: 5 + 1 - 1, Angst, Anyways, Blood and Injury, Broken Bones, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Bruce wayne loves his kids, Concussions, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Major injuries, Minor Injuries, Protective Bruce Wayne, Stabbing, kid got off easy, meanwhile tiny Dick Grayson just skinned his elbows, this isn't one of those 5 + 1 things but there's five of them so who knows if it counts or not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22275115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: The first time each of the Robins gets injured on Bruce's watch.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd & Bruce Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 34
Kudos: 510





	1. Dick

**Author's Note:**

> Today I named my coffee maker Pavlov because I want it to hypnotize me into being creative and able to write stuff. Will provide further updates soon when I'm not exhausted. Which is my current state. Because I'm tired. And words are hard. 
> 
> Expect the next chapter at?? Some point?? The new semester just started for me so who knows if I'll finish the next chapter tomorrow or three days from now. Life's a bat and I'm the wiffle ball, my dudes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tiny Dick gets hurt and Bruce panics.

It’s Dick’s first week of training to be Bruce’s...not sidekick. Assistant? Junior Batman? Whatever, Bruce supposes they can work out the logistics later. After all, they haven’t even come up with a  _ name _ for him yet. Batling? Batlad? Miniature Bat? With how small and agile this boy is, Bruce wouldn’t be surprised if he decided to instill fear in the hearts of Gotham’s worst criminals while wearing a butterfly costume.    
  
In spite of his own pride, Bruce would be a fool to deny that with every day that passes, he finds himself wondering if he’s making a wretched mistake by giving in to Dick’s need to bring his parents’ killer to justice. Looking at Dick is like looking into a warped mirror, and Bruce can see every possible way this can go wrong.    
  
What will happen if Bruce allows Dick to continue down this path? He himself has an Everest-sized mountain of emotional issues, all stemming from his decision to turn his grief and anger into physical blows. Is he really about to let Dick follow him into the darkness?    
  
Dick is just so _ young. _ So breakable. He still wakes up crying every night, pummeled by nightmares of his last day at Haly’s Circus. And here Bruce is, training the boy to fight crime alongside him when he  _ should  _ be watching Saturday cartoons and playing basketball with his friends.    
  
By taking him under the bat’s wing, is Bruce setting himself up to ruin Dick’s life?    
  
Today they are working with the training dummies in the cave as Bruce shows Dick how to fight hand-to-hand. It’s a skill he needs to learn, but one Bruce doesn’t expect him to actually  _ use _ in the field for at least a year or so. Let him stick with batarangs and flipping around like a flea; too quick for any thug to catch.    
  
Three hours in, Bruce takes a brief water break, leaving Dick to kick around the dummy as he pleases. Upon his return, however, the kid is nowhere to be found. “Dick?”   
  
“Check it out, Bruce!” a voice pipes from above. Bruce looks up and discovers his ward hanging upside-down from a notch sticking out of the cave wall, fifteen feet above the ground. “I’m a monkey.” Dick is grinning, swinging back and forth and crossing his eyes to prove his point.    
  
How the kid made it up there, Bruce has no idea. He’s learned not the question it whenever he finds Dick perched on a chandelier or hanging from the ceiling. That’s what he gets for taking in an acrobat who consumes nothing but sugar.    
  
“Well, of course you are. Everyone knows the best place to get a monkey is from the circus.” That makes Dick giggle. “How about you come down from there and have some water, chum?”   
  
Dick thinks about it for a moment before pulling himself right-side up and beginning the climb down. Bruce will never understand how he can so dexterously maneuver himself up and down a surface with so few footholds like that.    
  
Until Dick slips.    
  
He scrambles for the edge of the wall, but not even the Flying Grayson can react quickly enough to stop his descent. Bruce drops the water bottle and sprints, arriving just in time to catch Dick before what was about to be a harsh collision with the stone floor.    
  
Bruce’s heart is racing. “Are you okay?”   
  
Dick’s eyes brim with tears, and Bruce can see that his elbows and the heels of his hands have been scraped raw by the grating rock.    
  
All in all, it’s not a serious injury. Had it been Bruce, he wouldn’t even bother with a bandage. Six months ago he earned a knife through the hand and walked it off. But with the way Dick’s lip wobbles and he makes that breathy whimpering noise children do when they cry, he might as well be dying.    
  
“Come on, buddy. Alfred will patch you up.” Bruce hefts Dick more securely in his arms and takes him upstairs, all the while Dick cries like he’s been shot. By the time they find Alfred in the living room, he somehow has already got his medical kit in hand. Bruce swears that man was born with psychic abilities.    
  
Upon seeing the bloody mess that is their ward, Alfred clicks his tongue. “We’ve had ourselves a nasty spill, I see?”    
  
Bruce deposits Dick on the edge of the sofa. “You should check for a break.”   
  
“It’s a scrape, Master Bruce.” He goes about mopping up the rivulets coursing down Dick’s forearms, while Dick shudders with sobs.    
  
“He’s bleeding a lot.”   
  
“Yes. That’s what happens when one gets a scrape.”   
  
“Okay, but did you check for—”   
  
“All due respect, sir, but you are giving me a  _ splitting  _ headache with your rambling. If you want to make yourself useful, go fetch the Batman band-aids from the bathroom cupboard.”    
  
Bruce goes to comply, but pauses. Backtracks. “They...made Batman band-aids?”    
  
Dick wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I want the Superman ones.”   
  
Alfred smiles in agreement. “You heard the young man. Superman it is.”   
  
“No child in my house is using Superman band-aids.”   
  
“Are you really going to deny a crying eight-year-old his dying wish?”   
  
Bruce scowls and rolls his eyes. “Fine.” He goes off to the bathroom just down the hallway. He locates several packages of children’s bandages in the cabinet above the sink, just where Alfred said they would be. As he closes the cabinet, however, he catches sight of his reflection in the mirror. A worried crease has branded itself into his forehead, betraying his fears like an absolute traitor.    
  
It’s just that Dick is so  _ fragile.  _ He’s a child—barely tall enough to see himself in this same mirror without someone to lift him up, young enough that he still  _ cries  _ when he scrapes his elbow—and Bruce is about to let him embark on this mission with him? What gives him the right to rob this boy of his innocence so soon?    
  
When he arrives back in the living room, Dick has stopped crying and now sits patiently, swinging his legs as he watches Alfred apply antiseptic to his skinned hands. He’s chattering about the stunt he pulled on the wall, prideful as if the story doesn’t end with a hard descent and big, fat crocodile tears.    
  
Bruce doesn’t want to destroy him. Not Dick. Not this beam of fluorescence, lighting up Bruce’s life for the first time in years. And he yearns to tell Dick as much—tell him that he’ll have to let Batman catch Tony Zucco alone. That Bruce will navigate  _ any _ obstacle to make sure this boy stays happy for as long as he lives.    
  
But then he sees Dick smile as he brings over the band-aids, and the tears are already drying under his eyes, replaced with sunbeams sprouting from every pore. “Hey Bruce, can we keep training after this? Alfred told me about this  _ crazy  _ move you used to do and I want to try it.”    
  
Alfred smooths a bandage on Dick’s elbow. “The one you used to knock Killer Croc unconscious with three blows and a shovel.”   
  
And a laugh slips through stoic lips. Bruce ruffles Dick’s hair. “I’ll teach you when you’re older.”   
  
Dick pouts, but the excitement doesn’t leave his eyes. Bless this boy and his ability to bounce back quicker than anyone Bruce has met. “When I’m older, will they put my face on band-aids too?”   
  
And Bruce knows. He can’t make Dick quit—not now, not ever. Not when Dick smiles like he has the entire world in his hands; looks at Bruce like he would follow him to the ends of the earth if it meant they got to do it together. Besides, even if Bruce tried to force Dick out of this life before it’s even begun, it would no doubt only make the boy that much more determined to prove him wrong and fly as high as the wind will take him.    
  
“You’re darn right they will.”    
  
But he won’t let Dick become him. He won’t sentence Dick to the darkness that lives in the pit of Batman’s soul. Dick will stay happy. Stay the way he is—pure, spirited, filled with the determination not to avenge, but to do  _ good.  _   
  
And he will, one day, as Batman’s...as  _ Bruce’s  _ light.    



	2. Jason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason breaks his arm.

Jason isn’t like Dick was during his tenure as Robin. Not even close.    
  
This is something Bruce acknowledged from the beginning, of course. Jason is Dick’s antithesis in every way, which Bruce expected from the instant he caught the kid boosting his tires all those months ago. And he’s spent every day since then reminding himself that he shouldn’t expect Jason to let himself be molded into a cheap imitation of his predecessor, because that’s just not the kind of person Jason  _ is.  _ He is himself, above all else.    
  
The only shock to come of this entire journey is that Bruce finds he doesn’t mind.    
  
Where Dick would pop a quip and vault over criminals’ heads, laughing all the while, Jason is brash. Straightforward. He shares Bruce’s rock-like demeanor and saves the laughter for when his adversaries are already on the floor bleeding. There’s a certain warmth that blossoms in Bruce’s chest when this happens, soaking in the sunshine Jason emits when he gloats. No one can deny that the kid is a firecracker, but he’s good all the same.    
  
Jason has only been Robin for a short while, but he picked up the lifestyle quicker than Bruce thought he would. If Bruce were a man who believed in such things, he might wonder if it wasn’t fate which brought Jason into his life. Like the universe knew they needed each other the way the moon needs the sun.    
  
Tonight Gotham’s streets go quiet shortly after two a.m., which is when Bruce decides it’s about time they finish up for the evening. Jason has a math test in the morning, anyway. Bruce touches his radio. “Robin, regroup at the corner of Sixth and Puckett in five minutes. Batman out.”    
  
He’s allotted Jason a longer and longer leash every time they go out. Where Dick once stuck to Bruce’s side like a burr, Jason keeps his distance at every opportunity. Rather than acting like an extension of the bat, he seeks independence in their partnership, and Bruce is more than willing to give it to him. After all, his tendency to cling was what drove Dick away in the first place, right?   
  
He finds Jason already leaning against the Batmobile by the time he arrives. Bruce’s head is bent as he works mud off the corner of his cape—a gift from Clayface. “I was thinking we could pick up some ice cream on our way home. What do you think?”   
  
“Sure,” Jason says, but his voice is strained. Frowning, Bruce abandons his dirty cape and looks up. Jason’s mouth is twisted in a grimace; his creased forehead forming a tiny V above his nose.    
  
“You’re hurt.”    
  
“I’m fine. Let’s just go home.”    
  
“What happened?”   
  
“Nothin’.” But the way he holds his arm against his chest suggests otherwise.    
  
“We don’t hide injuries, Robin. Let me see.” Bruce reaches out, only for Jason to smack his hand away with his own unbroken one.    
  
“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, and it’s just feral enough that Bruce obeys.    
  
No, Jason isn’t anything like Dick was at this age, and Bruce knows better than to try and change that. Dick was open and free, while Jason hides under layers of mistrust. He’s protective of himself. Sleeps in a ball and stiffens under the lightest touch, wary of every new person he meets.   
  
It’s why Bruce takes a step back to give him space. “It’s broken, isn’t it?”   
  
Jason glares at the ground. But he nods.    
  
“If you let me take a look at it now, it’ll be easier for both of us.” He holds out his hand, neither pushy nor forceful. He leaves it up to Jason.   
  
Jason eyes him carefully, but his pallor betrays the pain he’s in and he surrenders his arm, flinching when Bruce touches him. He tries to be gentle, prodding until he finds the break just a few inches above Jason’s wrist.    
  
“It’s a small fracture,” he says after a minute. “Won’t need to be set. At home we’ll get you some painkillers and I can wrap it up.”    
  
“It’s fine,” Jason insists. “I don’t need a cast.”   
  
Bruce ponders the boy. Takes in the tense stance—the way Jason looks ready to tug his arm back and bolt, even with the pain. Why doesn’t he trust Bruce? What happened to him back then that would make him this afraid, even now?    
  
Bruce loosens his grip and lets Jason take his arm back, tucking it back against himself. “What if Alfred does it? Would that be better?” Jason’s always trusted Alfred more than Bruce. He might be offended if he didn’t trust Alfred more than himself as well.    
  
After a moment of consideration, teeth digging into his lip, Jason nods.    
  
“Okay. And we’ll pick up the ice cream on the way, if you still want it.”    
  
This time Jason allows the faintest of smiles.    
  
In all the ways Dick trusted Bruce with his life, Jason does not. But as they get into the car and prepare for the ride home, Bruce promises himself that he won’t stop trying until one day he does.


	3. Tim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is bad, but I have to do homework so oh well.

It takes almost four months on the job before Tim gets hurt on Bruce’s watch. One could claim it a lucky streak, but Bruce knows better—that it’s really because they’ve both just been so _careful._ Every step they take is like trekking over a frozen lake; Bruce with the intent to keep Tim safe by any means necessary, and Tim not wanting to disappoint Bruce. Not wanting to be Jason.   
  
Tonight they’ve tackled a break-in at the local Kord Industries building. Ironic that the project these bozos were trying to steal before Batman and Robin intervened was a security system. Bruce handled the four guys he’s now zip-tying here, while he sent Robin up to handle the one who escaped upstairs.   
  
It’s been less than four minutes since then, yet Bruce finds he has hold himself back from charging upstairs to make sure Tim isn’t dying on the floor. He trained this one well, he tells himself. Tim is more than capable of taking down one thief on his own.   
  
Still, the knot in his throat refuses to loosen until he hears Robin approach from behind him. Tim’s footsteps are light; lighter than both Dick’s and Jason’s, but whether that is due to size or timidity ( _Tim_ -idity, as Dick calls it) is unknown.   
  
“How’d you do on your end?” Bruce asks, short and clipped. Betraying nothing of his desperation to hear a positive answer.   
  
“Um. Good,” Robin says, albeit shakily. “Except...well, um…”  
  
“Speak up, Robin.” He waits for an answer, for another hint of Tim’s telltale voice wobble, but instead he’s met with the sound of small knees hitting the floor.   
  
Bruce wheels around to find his Robin collapsed on his knees and one hand, while the other clutches his side. Blood has soaked through his tunic (How long has it been? Why didn’t he _say_ anything?) and squeezes between the gaps in his fingers.   
  
Bruce forgets about the thieves entirely and swipes Tim’s hand away so he can see the wound for himself. “What happened?” But he already knows the answer. He’s been in this business long enough to know a gunshot wound when he sees one.   
  
“That guy upstairs,” Tim grits out while Bruce applies pressure to the bleed, “he had a gun. I t-tried to stop the bleeding and stay calm like you said, I swear.” He’s tripping over his tongue. Trembling with adrenaline and fear. “But I keep g-getting lightheaded, I think. I’m sorry, I tried—”  
  
Bruce shushes him. He reaches up to his cowl and comms Alfred. “A, I need you to call Dr. Thompkins and tell her we’re coming. Robin’s got a GSW to the abdomen and I don’t know how much blood he’s lost, so tell her to prepare for a transfusion.”  
  
Then he presses a button on his belt, calling the Batmobile to their location. They’re on the second floor now, which means Bruce will have to carry Tim downstairs. He refocuses on Tim’s face and realizes the boy is holding back tears. He’s trying to be strong and not show weakness even during a time when he _should_ be allowed to be weak, but Bruce can’t find the will to tell him otherwise.   
  
So instead, he replaces his hand on the wound with Tim’s once more. “Keep pressure there, all right? I’m going to carry you to the Batmobile.”   
  
Tim nods and does as asked, hissing in pain. He doesn’t let up, though.   
  
Being as gentle as possible, Bruce slips his arms behind Tim’s shoulders and under his knees, lifting him up and cradling him close. Blood runs off Tim’s suit and stains Bruce’s, but he is so far from caring about that right now.   
  
As he rushes to get Tim out of the building, he finds himself checking Tim’s face every couple of seconds. Checking to make sure those scared blue eyes are still looking back at him. He tries not to remind himself of how it felt to hold Jason’s limp body in his arms, or the memories of an absent pulse and lack of breath.   
  
Tim doesn’t lose consciousness on the way to the car, which Bruce takes to be a good sign, as minor as it is. The time in which they arrive at and get into the Batmobile whooshes by in a total blur. Bruce is only vaguely aware of the roar of the engine as he drives to to Leslie’s clinic at a speed which is _well_ above the legal limit.   
  
Aside from Tim’s shaky breathing and the thud of Bruce’s pulse in his ears, the ride passes in relative silence. Bruce doesn’t want to lose this one. Not after Jason. Not at all.   
  
Leslie gets right to work upon their arrival. Bruce lies Tim on the medical cot in the center of the room, then takes the hint and backs away, staying out of Leslie’s path. Tim hisses when Leslie prods at the wound, biting his lip and scrambling to grip the edge of the cot until his knuckles go white.   
  
After a minute, Leslie presses a gauze pad to the wound and instructs Bruce to hold it there while she goes to get something from her tray of supplies. “He’s lucky,” she says, and it does nothing to calm Bruce’s nerves. “His armor caught most of the blow, and it miraculously didn’t hit any organs. I’ll have to dig out the bullet, but he’ll be fine with surgery and a blood transfusion.”   
  
Bruce is so relieved his head swims.   
  
Leslie prepares an IV, and Bruce silently offers his hand to Tim, who seems shocked at the gesture. But after a moment’s hesitation, he takes it and just about squeezes the life out of Bruce’s fingers when Leslie inserts the needle.   
  
“Sorry I got blood on your suit,” Tim says after a while. He’s still pale, but his panic dims as the drugs kick in.   
  
“Don’t apologize,” Bruce says. “You did nothing wrong.” And there’s more he wants to say— _so_ much more about how relieved he is that Tim is going to be okay. How he doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost him. That he would take a hundred bullets if it meant Tim would never have to suffer one.   
  
But they’re not there yet. So Bruce just pets back Tim’s hair and keeps his mouth shut. 


	4. Stephanie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steph gets a concussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My knowledge of concussions is limited to Grey’s Anatomy, which is written with the help of real-life doctors who actually know what they’re talking about, and that episode “The Injury” from The Office which is most likely a wildly inaccurate portrayal of concussions. So of course I decided to use The Office as my reference for this.

Overall, adjusting to Stephanie has been a task Bruce finds himself woefully unprepared for. It’s almost like she consulted Dick beforehand and together they concocted a foolproof plan to drive Bruce crazy.    
  
In terms of personality she’s more bubbly than Tim,  _ way  _ more than Jason, and just enough to give Dick a run for his money. And yet Bruce can’t find it in himself to brush her off completely, for she carries in her more determination than anyone Bruce has ever met.    
  
He won’t lie: When she first came to him and demanded he make her the new Robin, Bruce had his doubts. He probably would have sent her packing without a second thought if he weren’t so desperate for the position to be filled.    
  
He didn’t expect her to last a day with the rigorous training regimen, but Stephanie barreled through every task he threw her way with unbridled enthusiasm, proving herself anything but soft. Every challenge was taken with a grin, like this is all just a game she intends to win. It’s intriguing, the way Stephanie Brown deviates so completely from Batman’s previous partners.    
  
Although, as with any budding partnership, there are always slip-ups.    
  
“Hey Batsie, has anyone ever told you that your face looks kinda like that guy from  _ Star Wars?” _   
  
Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Han Solo?”    
  
“No, the other one. The...tall guy.”    
  
“I have no idea who you’re talking about.”    
  
“Sure ya do,” Stephanie drawls. “The guy? With the face? And the ears?” She tweaks one of the prongs atop Bruce’s cowl. He smacks her hand away.    
  
They’re walking back into the Batcave after a less-than-ideal patrol, though maybe “walking” is giving Stephanie too much credit. Bruce is more or less dragging her along at this point, what with the way her limbs refuse to cooperate like they should. He’s being careful to avoid further damage to the small gash on the back of her head, staining her blonde hair red.    
  
Alfred looks more amused than anything as the pair stumbles over to the medical bay section of the cave. “I take it our Miss Stephanie is...impaired?”   
  
“That’s code for ‘drugs,’” Stephanie whispers into Bruce’s ear. She falls into a bout of snorting laughter, then her eyes widen and she smacks Bruce on the chest. “Jar Jar Binks! That’s the guy! You look  _ just  _ like him.”    
  
Bruce sighs. “She has a concussion, Alfred. She wouldn’t stop complaining on the way here, so I gave her a light painkiller.”    
  
Alfred arches an eyebrow as Bruce wrangles Stephanie into a chair. “Light?”   
  
“I feel drunk,” Stephanie announces. “But don’t be mad that I know what alc...alcoholism tastes like. A girl’s gotta party, right Alfrie?”   
  
“Indeed,” Alfred replies with a fond eye roll. He gently prods at Stephanie’s head, feeling around the bump at the back of her skull.    
  
“Not  _ Tim,”  _ Stephanie continues with a scoff. “Tim  _ never  _ does anything fun. I’m out beating up bad guys all night, and what’s he doing?  _ Homework,  _ probably.” She scoffs, like the mere idea is preposterous. “He’s like you, Brucie. Old and respons...responsitable. And  _ boring.”  _   
  
“Is that so?” Bruce says, only mildly paying attention. Stephanie is in good hands, so he goes about his own post-patrol business while she chatters.    
  
_ “Yes!”  _ She plants her chin on her hand with the poutiest of pouts. “He’s so  _ hot,  _ though. Ugh. Stupid hot boys and their stupid hot faces. You know, I’ve been thinkin’ about trying girls for a while. What do you think, Alfie?”    
  
“I think that is an excellent choice.” He dabs carefully at the gash. “The ladies will hardly be able to keep their hands off you.”    
  
“That’s what I’m saying! But…” She dramatically tosses back her hair and grumbles. “Tim is such a good  _ kisser, _ y’know? It’s annoying, really. And he makes this  _ super  _ cute squeaking sound when I pull his hair. Did ya know that?”    
  
“I’m still within hearing range, you know,” Bruce says. He’s in the process of tugging off his cape, feeling for the clasp at the back of his neck which he could have  _ sworn _ was there yesterday.    
  
Stephanie giggles again. She drops her voice to a whisper, which of course reaches across the cave just as well as it did five seconds ago. “He thinks I’m talkin’ about sex,” she tells Alfred, as if Bruce isn’t fully aware of what she’s saying. “But he’s got no idea our Timmy is still a blushing virgin.” Then, louder, “Did you know that, boss-man?”    
  
“I am begging you to stop talking,” Bruce says, feeling so,  _ so _ tired as he finally hauls off the cape. He won’t pretend he isn’t secretly relieved to hear this new information, though. Maybe he’ll send Tim a thank-you fruit basket for giving Bruce one less thing to raise his blood pressure.    
  
Stephanie shrugs, somehow incorporating her entire body into the gesture. “Anyways, you wanna hear what happened, Alfie?”    
  
“Oh, do tell.” He’s wrapping a bandage around Stephanie’s head now, being careful of her blonde curls.    
  
_ “Well.  _ Me and the old man were out doin’ superhero stuff at that one place with that one thing, y’know? The…” She pauses, then hollers across the cave, “What’s that big garbage thingy called?”   
  
Bruce settles in the big chair at the computer, icing his knee which is still in the process of healing from  _ last  _ night’s patrol. “You mean a dumpster?”   
  
“That’s it!” She turns back to Alfred. “I fell off a building and landed in a dumpster.”   
  
Alfred mocks a gasp. “My goodness, that  _ is  _ unfortunate.”   
  
“Right? Only it wasn’t my fault, ‘cause  _ this  _ guy over here—” She jerks a thumb at Bruce. “—got knocked into me and shoved me off like the cold bastard he is, which is why I’m gonna sue him and take his fortune.”    
  
Alfred pats her hand. “My dear, that is a wonderful idea. I think he could do to lose a few million. It will humble him, don’t you think?”   
  
Stephanie snaps her fingers. “Exact-a-mundo.”    
  
“Will you please stop gossiping with my partner, Alfred?”    
  
Stephanie gasps, nearly tipping out of her chair. “Hey, he didn’t say sidekick that time! Did you hear that? Did you hear that, Alfred? He called me his  _ partner.”  _   
  
“I heard.”    
  
Stephanie stretches her arms out, grinning. “I’m a  _ bird.  _ And stupid, pretty Timmy can’t do a single thing about it.” She bats away Alfred’s hands and leaps up from her chair, booking it across the cave toward Bruce.    
  
He sighs in advance. It’s been a very sighful night. “Please go sit back down.”   
  
“But there are  _ bad guys _ to catch,” Stephanie insists, tugging on his arm. “C’mon, let’s go beat some people up.”    
  
“No. You’re going to stay here and do what Alfred says so you don’t get brain damage.”    
  
“But I’m perfectly fine, boss. See?” She knocks on the uninjured part of her head. “Made out of, like...hard stuff. Glue.”    
  
“I can see that.”   
  
She lights up. “So we’re going back out?”   
  
“Still no. Thanks for asking, though.”    
  
Stephanie droops, melting over the armrest of the chair so her nose squishes against his leg. “You’re a bully. I’m gonna call Tim and he’ll come over here and fire you.”    
  
“How’s that?”   
  
“We’ll have you declared insane like the Joker, and when they take you to the loony bin he’s gonna be Robin again.”   
  
“Mm-hm. And what about you?”    
  
She looks at him like he’s the biggest idiot this side of Metropolis. “I’m _ Batman.  _ Duh.”    
  
Bruce snorts. “Of course. My mistake.”    
  
“You’re darn right it is.” After another minute, Steph groans and slinks to lie on the floor. “My head hurts.”    
  
“I can’t imagine why.” Steph only groans again, and Bruce can’t tamp down the amused smile fast enough. “Why don’t you go up to bed? You can use one of the guest rooms tonight, and I’ll have Alfred call your mother so she knows where you are.”    
  
Stephanie shakes her head. “No. The floor is my bed now.” She stretches out like a starfish.    
  
He lightly kicks her in the side. “Stephanie.”    
  
“Quiet, whore. I’m sleeping.”    
  
Bruce crosses his arms, but he’s finding it impossible to muster any genuine annoyance. “You’re making this much harder than it has to be, you know.”   
  
Stephanie muffles a laugh in the stone floor.    
  
“What?”   
  
One blue eye peeks up at him, crinkled with giddiness. “That’s what she said.”   
  
As Stephanie laughs like she just made the funniest joke in the world, Bruce can’t help but chuckle along with her, like her joy is a contagion. And it’s not that Bruce doesn’t want Tim back as his Robin again. He wants their duo restored  _ desperately, _ but he’d be a fool to deny that there is something about Stephanie that makes Bruce wonder if maybe being left with this one wouldn’t be so bad after all. 


	5. Damian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian gets stabbed in the leg.

Bruce and Damian are still getting used to each other as partners, and it shows in their lapse of coordination. With all of his previous Robins, even Stephanie, Bruce felt as though each was an extension of himself. There was no need for communication or worry , for Batman knew his partners inside and out, and it was one of the traits that made them the dynamic duo in the first place.    
  
But if the other Robins were extensions of Bruce, Damian is more like a tumor.    
  
A benign tumor, of course. One that is largely harmless, but it still makes you  _ wonder.  _ You still imagine countless scenarios in which that tumor kills someone; usually the host in this metaphor, but Bruce would be a liar if he said he didn’t harbor his own concerns that one day Damian is going to break loose and cut someone’s head off. Again.    
  
And Bruce finds himself  _ frustrated  _ for it, at himself more than Damian. It speaks volumes about his parenting that he is comparing his eleven-year-old son to a  _ tumor,  _ of all things. He knows it’s not his fault . He didn’t ask to get lost in time so his son could grow up without him, just as it’s not Damian’s fault that he prefers his partnership with Dick.    
  
And in that sense it’s ironic, the way everything turned out. Bruce has always been a mentor to Dick, (to all of them, really), giving him advice in times of calamity and picking him up whenever he stumbled. And he still does, but it’s different now. Because lately, Bruce finds himself calling Dick at odd hours, pelting him with questions on how to handle Damian—how to be a  _ father  _ to him.    
  
_ Has Damian learned this move yet or should I teach him first?  _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Since when is he into art? Am I allowed to see it, or will he be upset if I try? _ _   
_ _   
_ _ Does he prefer chocolate or vanilla ice cream? … What do you  _ mean  _ he’s a vegan? _ _   
_ _   
_ At first he expected Damian to remind him of Jason—which is rocky terrain but at least it’s what Bruce  _ knows _ —only to realize that he is vastly out of his depth with this one. If Jason was headstrong, Damian is a rottweiler.    
  
Bruce just wishes he  _ knew  _ him. They are out of sync, and it makes patrolling difficult in that Bruce doesn’t let himself off his guard for the fear that his ignorance will cause him to screw up and lead Damian back into the dark.    
  
Like tonight, for example. Bruce watches Damian fight, and it’s like watching a potter at the kiln. He’s smooth and graceful—something he must have picked up from his time with Dick—but he’s sharp edges all the same, cutting corners and making harsh grooves. His grandfather’s influence carries in every movement, but so does Dick’s. So do Cassandra’s and Stephanie’s and Tim’s and Barbara’s. And thus, so does Bruce’s.    
  
It’s strange, seeing phantoms of Bruce’s own techniques reflected in those of his son. His son whom he hardly knows, yet feels the marrow-deep connection to in that he’s connected to each of the living threads in Bruce’s life. Whether Damian is aware of it or not, he’s woven in and cinched tight.    
  
Robin knocks out the mugger with both swiftness and precision. The victim must have called the police when they bolted shortly after Batman and Robin intervened, for sirens can be heard wailing blocks away and getting closer.    
  
Bruce tugs on his son’s hood, earning a smack to the arm for it. “He’s down, Robin. Let’s go.”    
  
Robin brushes himself off and pushes past Bruce, grappling to a building across the street without a word. Bruce follows, pondering in the back of his head what it is about Damian that makes him fire and ice all at once. Maybe Bruce was the ice to Talia’s fire, and together they sparked this migraine-inducing miracle of nature.    
  
He finds Damian on the roof watching the arrest go down below, pride radiating in his eyes as though the bleeding mugger is his very own  _ Mona Lisa.  _ Bruce watches him—watches him watch the scene, wishing he could reach into his son’s brain and find the common ground they so desperately seek. But then Damian shifts and Bruce catches a glint peeking out from behind a fold of his cape. “Damian.”    
  
Damian ignores him.    
  
_ “Damian.”  _   
  
A sigh. “What?”    
  
“There’s a knife in your leg.”    
  
Damian’s nose wrinkles. He looks down, pushes his cape aside and, lo and behold, there it is. He doesn’t appear overly concerned. More offended at its presence, like he’s discovered a smudge of jam on his sleeve rather than an inch-long gash in his thigh. “Oh.” He clicks his tongue. “Well that’s annoying.”    
  
Why doesn’t he care? How could he have not  _ noticed?  _   
  
Before Bruce can provide sage instruction on proper first-aid, Damian is already yanking the knife out on his own, and Bruce hates how stoic the boy is. How he barely flinches at the pain.    
  
It makes Bruce wonder about all the other injuries he wasn’t there for. All the times Damian was punished for daring to show pain and had the weakness beaten out of him by every trainer under the sun.    
  
“Let’s go,” Bruce says. This time he places on hand on Damian’s shoulder; gently urging, but not forcing. “Alfred should take a look at that.”    
  
Damian shakes off the hand. “I’m fine, father. It’s a flesh wound.”    
  
“A flesh wound that was given by a dirty knife. You’ll need stitches and antibiotics.”    
  
“It’s not even eleven o’clock. We still have work to do.” Did he inherit his stubbornness from Bruce, or was it acquired somewhere else? Bruce wants so badly to ask.    
  
“Yes, and my job as your father is to keep you safe. We’re going home.”   
  
Damian holds his glare, lip twisted into a sneer, but he’s losing his will to prolong this argument. It betrays the pain that must be setting in by now. He nods.    
  
Bruce wants nothing more than to be able to shield his son from the world and its dangers. Travel back in time to kidnap him as a baby and bring him back here, keep him  _ safe.  _ Start over, get to know his child as he is rather than what assassins and endless training turned him into. Ensure that he’ll never have to suffer for as long as he lives.    
  
But Bruce has spent enough time in the past. With Damian, it’s time to start learning to live in the present again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Damian became a vegetarian during the time when he was with Bruce, but I thought the line was funny so I kept it in.

**Author's Note:**

> If you leave a comment, the next dog you see will serenade you with a Whitney Houston song on the saxophone. 
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


End file.
